Malcolm Reed, On Applied Murphaic Law
by Nyruserra
Summary: An away mission gone awry leaves two officers stranded on an arid alien planet. Warning: Slash ArcherReed
1. Chapter 1

**Malcolm Reed, On Applied Murphaic Law **

_ Anything that can go wrong, will _

**I**

-..-

Asprin's Maxim

_ Blessed be the Peacekeepers, for they shall take flack from both sides _

_-..-_

The readout in the Situation Room was lit with a series of axis and wave fronts surrounding the six-planet system they were currently orbiting. Jonathan Archer looked up from his study of the display to address the rather irritated man across the display table.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. I know you probably want off this ship as much as anyone, but I really don't think a security detail is necessary on this one."

"I think, _Sir,_ that a certain amount of caution may be in order. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how meetings with these people tend to turn out." Malcolm knew he was _just_ on this side of actually being belligerent with a superior officer, his Captain no less; but how the man could still, after all this ship and it's crew had been through, casually brush off common sense security measures as paranoia was absolutely galling.

Actually, if Malcolm wanted to be totally honest, what really pissed him off was that Archer seemed to get away with it. Every time, he, Chief Armoury Officer of the premier deep-space exploration vessel, so much as poked his nose outside the ship, someone immediately tried to shoot it off.

Or freeze him in a leaking shuttlepod.

Or invade his body and humiliate him in front of the female crew.

Or, his personal favourite, impale him through the leg and affix him to an exploding mine.

Or threaten to execute him for being an alien… well, at least the Captain had been there for that one. It was probably the only reason the universe had seen fit to rescue them at all. Clearly, the man had been born with the proverbial horseshoe up his more-then stellar bum.

"The Kreetassans may be a royal pain in my ass, but I really don't think that they want to hurt me. Just humiliate me publicly, in new and interesting ways." Captain Archer's absolute delight at the prospect shone with every circuit paced around the tiny room.

_No bloody need for security ? Let's see; the last two times you've met these bastards, five crewmen ended up absorbed by an alien intruder whom the Kreetassans 'accidentally' left behind, and then, through their negligence, another infected a member of our crew with a very serious virus!_ The fact that the affected crewmember was a fury quadruped was skimmed over in his irritation with his superior officer.

Malcolm had to make a conscious effort not to cross his arms and glare childishly. Reed men, after all, were_ never_ childish.

"Captain, may I remind you that our sensor logs have picked up record of Romulan activity in the area. The readings are no more then seven days old. I would strongly advise exercising appropriate caution when going down to meet with the Kreetassans." T'Pol's unruffled calm seemed to only be irritating the Captain further.

"Romulan? What are _they _doing here?" The Captain frowned at her, before turning to his hovering engineer. "Trip, how badly do we need this -"

"Forget't Cap'n. We need that injector, and we already know they've got the best to offer. I don't know about you, but I _really _don' wanna be out here with substandard parts, if you know what I mean?"

Archer could feel his irritation start to boil over. "How in the hell do your people manage to break so many things, Commander? I mean –"

"Hey, now, just hold up there Cap'n. This is a big ship, and we've run into lots of help in the Breaking Things department. My team has done a miraculous job keeping this old girl in as good of shape as she's in. Truth is, we've been real lucky so far, but we need parts we can count on, or this trip could be over real quick." Looking up at his long-time friend with an apologetic shrug, he added "At least you know not to bring Porthos this time."

The Captain just glared at him.

Clearly controlling his urge to throttle his friend, he turned back Lieutenant Reed. Malcolm understood the feeling perfectly – he had to resist the same urge all the time. "Alright, Lieutenant, what would you consider appropriate caution?"

Hands held behind his back, in a classic at-rest position, Reed silently contemplated the wall behind the Captain's head for a moment. "With both Romulans and Andorians sighted in the area within the last month, I would strongly recommend sending a skeleton landing party. Just you and I would probably be best; a larger group will only attract attention. Once we're down, the Enterprise should move off, at least to a minimum distance of 5,000 light years. This will also put them beyond the radiation that seems to be prevalent in this system, and allow the long range sensors to stand a chance of detecting trouble before it's on top of them."

"That puts us a ways beyond helping you two if anything goes wrong, don't you think?" Trip's voice was, predictably, indignant at this suggestion.

T'Pol interjected coolly, "The Lieutenant presents a sound course of action, Commander, and his plan does present the fewest risks. In our current condition, the Enterprise is in no real condition to defend itself in an armed confrontation, especially with the Romulans." It was Trip's turn to glare.

Archer's growl of irritation cut off another potential argument. "Alright, Lieutenant, prep a shuttlepod. Trip, you're not really needed until we get the parts from the pains-in-my-backside below, are you?"

"No, not really, Cap'n. Why?"

"Then pack your bags, Commander - I could use you down there." At the look on the southerner's face, he asked, "I thought you liked getting off the ship, and visiting new places?"

Trip looked uncomfortable. "If it's all the same to you, Cap'n, I'd rather pass on this one. You've got your hands full with these guys, and I'm sure I'd be of more use up here if…"

Archer cut in sternly, as the Engineer trailed off. "If I have to go through all of this for your spare parts, you'd better be there to make sure that they're absolutely perfect. Gold plated would be even better, for having to do this _twice_ in one lifetime."

"Twenty minutes?" Trip asked, resigned.

-..-

Katz's Law

_ Men and nations will act rationally, only when all other possibilities have been exhausted _

_-..-_

After three days on Kreetassa Thelma, Jonathan was more then ready to go home.

The view from the communal balcony wasn't particularly spectacular, but he wasn't really looking anyway. He'd expected the negotiations to be hell, and they had been. The first insult had occurred before they had even crossed the threshold of the alien's gated city, and was grievous enough that all three officers had had to spend the first night in the shuttlepod.

After a few hours of sitting on his hands in the cramped confines of the shuttle, being ignored by every diplomat they tried contacting, with worry for his ship and crew gnawing at him, and well, he'd been ready to go and visit their Alvera trees himself. There was only one thing that had kept their precious trees from ammonia poisoning - for once, he hadn't been the one unable to live up to these peoples impossible standards. It was Malcolm.

The ritual apology they demanded just made it even better. Jonathan was sure Trip would be teasing the normally pristine Lieutenant about it for months to come, but the look on Malcolm's face when he had realized he was sinking…. It wasn't something that Trip would ever allow the Armoury officer to forget.

So far, they'd had to make five more apologies, three of which were his. At least they had made it worthwhile, at the end. The away team would be returning to the ship in the morning, with five thermal injectors. Archer almost felt as though he was a returning warrior, bringing home the spoils of battle. Negotiations with these people were like small skirmishes. Mealtime conversations were akin to traversing a mine field.

Watching the extended twilight experienced by this binary star system, Jonathan wasn't really seeing any of its beauty. He knew he was brooding, and it irritated him. For the last six months or more, he'd been doing very well at avoiding going on an away mission with Malcolm Reed. The scene he'd put on in the Situation Room had reminded him uncomfortably of one he had once witnessed in the Mess Hall, when Feezle Phlox had been visiting. Poor Trip had practically begged Hoshi to stay with him, hopping she'd serve as a kind of deterrent for the Denobulan barracuda. From what Trip'd told him later, it hadn't worked in the slightest. Of course, in this case, he sort of wished for Trip's problem. It would make things so much easier.

Determinedly pushing his feelings to the back of his thoughts, he stared back out at the diminishing skyline and willed himself to admire the purple hue of the instead.

"Amazing, how they've managed t'create all of this, on such an inhospitable rock, ain't it?" Trip's soft drawl was a comfortable presence in Jon's quiet mood.

"They've spent generations reclamatin' their planet, one kilometre at a time from all that barren rock we flew over on our way in. From what the First Minister says, the whole planet's like that. A lot of work went into the aqueducts that this place is built on. Pretty impressive, if you ask me."

Jonathan grunted in vague agreement, while continuing to stare as the first stars began to appear. It was always a shock for the little boy in him who used to watch the stars with his dad, to look up at an alien sky and find that all the stars were in the wrong places, like a bag of spilled marbles. It was silly. The scientist in him knew perfectly well that of course he wouldn't see familiar constellations on Kreetassa Thelma; but that wonder-filled little boy's spirit was still much stronger in him then the voice of all his science professors he'd ever had combined. T'Pol would probably say it was a sign that he had failed to assimilate reason; instead, allowing uneducated gut instincts to rule him.

Sometimes, T'Pol was right.

"You've been real quiet lately, Jon. You wanna tell me what's on your mind? I don't have a copy of the latest water polo game handy tonight, but I think we could probably rustle up something that's at least their equivalent of beer. A few of those that we were drinking at dinner, and I'll bet you'd tell me where your dad hid his secret still." Trip clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon Cap'n. Let me help – you've been a miserable goat for weeks."

Jon snorted, turning his head to glare playfully up at his close friend. "You want to be scrubbing plasma conduits for the next month, Commander?"

Trip grinned at him. "That's better. Now spill your guts, I'd like to get to bed sometime tonight."

"Nothing serious, Trip, I assure you."

"Uh-huh. Why don't you jest explain to me then why you dragged me down here, and don't give me any crap about examining parts. You could've done that as well as I can, and you know it. Not that seeing Mal trying to perform that ancient ritual of theirs wasn't a hoot, but…"

"Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'misery loves company'? Captain's prerogative – I get to spread it around in new and cruel ways."

Trip came to rest his weight on his forearms against the balcony rail. Looking over at his friend, he made sure he had his eye as he told him seriously "Bullshit, Jon. You wanna try again?"

Jonathan smiled tiredly. "I have a few personal issues with one of the crew to work through. Nothing startling, I assure you. The same old sins, in not terribly new or original wrapping, I'm afraid…"

Trip's eyebrow rose speculatively. After a moment, he asked, "What's his name?"

"Does it matter?" Jon asked dryly.

"Just curious, really. You're in a tough spot, with you bein' Cap'n and all, I guess. Is there any chance that they feel the same…?" Trip allowed his voice to trail off suggestively.

Jon shrugged. "Not that he's told me, but it's not exactly like I can call him into my Ready Room and ask, now is it? I think that would definitely go down as an abuse of power."

Trip laughed, humourlessly. "No, I guess that could get just a bit uncomfortable, couldn't it? Isn't there anyway you could, I dunno, maybe drop some hints, see what happens? They'd have to be _real_ subtle, given your position, but maybe you could get an idea…?"

"Trip, we're talking about Malcolm. I don't think he'd pick up on anything more subtle then if I came down and tried to redecorate his armoury."

Trip whistled softly, and reached over to give Jonathan's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. "Malcolm? I never would have guessed." He paused. "Chances are though, neither has he."

Jon ignored the gambit, instead responding lightly, "I don't know whether to be relieved or to cry." Seeing his friend trying to smother a yawn, Jon straightened up abruptly. "Go to bed, Trip. You're not going to solve the world's problems tonight."

Nodding reluctantly, Trip turned to watch Jon staring out at the now dark sky again. "You'll be alright, Cap'n?"

Jonathan heard the compassion in his voice. Trip was a loyal friend, who felt everyone's pain as his own. This, unfortunately, was what tended to get him into trouble. "I'll be fine, Trip. Get some sleep."

Moving to the carved doors at the far end of the balcony, he paused at the threshold. Without turning around, he spoke. "You know, this may just be a country boy talkin', but I think Malcolm's a big boy. I'm sure he can handle bein' the captain's man just fine. 'Course, that would mean you'd have to suck it up an' ask him."

Long after the Commander had gone to bed, Jonathan remained out, staring up at the stars; but now he found his thoughts had taken a slightly different turn.

_Maybe you're right, Trip. Maybe it is time to test the waters a bit. _

-..-

The hum of the tactical station was beginning to penetrate even Vulcan stoicism. The unrelenting high frequency buzz had started shortly after the mercenary attack that had left the Enterprise in her current condition, and T'Pol was having increasing difficulties in tuning out the aberrant noise.

She supposed it was due, in part, to the unnatural silence. After more then three days of waiting, the bridge crew was tense. T'Pol had even come to miss the sporadic banter that was normally present between the regular crew. She found the lack somehow… distracting.

Obviously serving with the humans was beginning to affect her logic.

"Sub-Commander, I'm picking something up on the sensors. It looks like it may be a Romulan warp signature

"Bearing?" The cool voice cut across the trepidation of the on-duty Beta shift Ensign covering the Tactical station. _Lieutenant Reed would be very distressed to hear such hesitancy in one of his staff. _

"Bearing two eight three, mark five zero."

"Confirm that, Sub-Commander; a Romulan ship, bearing two eight three, mark five zero." Travis's voice didn't betray the tense excitement that made him sit straighter at his station, anticipating the next order.

Standing from her perch on the edge of the Captain's chair, T'Pol ordered "Get us back in communications range with the shuttlepod, Ensign. Warp four."

-..-

"_The Romulan ship will be in sensor range in less then seven minutes, Captain. The shuttlepod would be inadvisable." _

A tight knot had formed in the pit of his stomach as he listened to his first officer's cool report. "Suggestions, Sub-Commander?"

"_The radiation emitted by the twin stars in this system will make the transporter's energy requirements approximately double what it would normally be, but I believe that if we were to transport you in two groups, that should make it possible for the power grid to handle the additional power drain."_

Trip's indignant voice cut in, interrupting Archer before he could respond. "What are you doing to my systems up there, T'Pol? Twice the drain? How accurate is that figure?"

Frowning slightly at his friend's misplaced concern, Lieutenant Reed asked, "_Should_ be able to handle the drain? What kind of risks are we talking about, Sub-Commander?"

"_The power is requisitioned by the system long before the molecular beam begins decompression. If sufficient power is unavailable, you will fail to transport. The other option is, of course, to stay where you are. Enterprise can move into the heaviest part of the radiation belt, and remain undetected on their sensors. If the Romulans follow their previous patterns recorded on our sensor log, they will sweep the system, and return to open space in forty-eight hours. We could return to rendezvous with the shuttle at that time."_

"And if they don't follow their previous course? We could end up stuck here a lot longer then forty-eight hours." Archer pursed his lips and blew a slow breath, staring at his men while he thought. "I don't see as we have much choice but to use the transporter. Commander Tucker will go first, with the thermal injectors. Lieutenant Reed and I will follow as soon as he's clear."

"_Understood. Stand by."_

"Sir -" One look at the armoury officer's face told Archer exactly what he thought of the plan.

"Relax, Malcolm. You heard T'Pol. Even if it doesn't work, we're in no danger. Nothing's going to go wrong."

Malcolm's look was incredulous, silently asking if perhaps the Captain had been serving on a different ship then he for the last few years.

At that moment, the com-link crackled to life_. "Commander Tucker, are you ready?"_

"Ready as I'll ever be."

The whine of the transporter always set Malcolm's teeth on edge. He would never allow himself to show it, especially before his Captain, but even the thought of going through the beam always made him want to scratch all over. Still, its tactical advantages far outweighed the risk in many situations. This just wasn't one of them, in his opinion.

"_Okay, Cap'n. I'm clear, though I don't think I'll ever get used to that. See you in a minute."_

"See you in a minute, Commander. Tell the duty officer to stand by." He turned to Malcolm, standing quietly just behind him. "Ready, Lieutenant?" He deliberately gave Malcolm a rather less-than-professional smile; something inviting and personal, without actually leering.

Malcolm looked at him strangely, a rather guarded expression settling on his face. "Aye, Sir."

_Well, that went well, _he thought sarcastically. Jonathan recovered quickly, "Good. Frankly, I've had enough of the Kreetassan's hospitality to last me for a long while. Let's go home." Opening his communicator once again, Archer called "Enterprise, two to beam up."

The beam was warm. Jonathan realized that logically, it was really phantom messages generated by his brain at the loss of signals from his nerve endings; but despite knowing all this, it always felt like being in a warm bath. For a split second, he could see the alien landscape in perfect detail through the silvery haze created by the trans-matter stream; the tall, rounded buildings covered in some kind of dark rock sheathing, the odd shadows caused by the twin suns, and the Kreetassan First Minister watching impassively from the stairs of their diplomacy building.

And then he saw nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Malcolm Reed, On Applied Murphaic Law**

_Anything that can go wrong, will _

**II**

* * *

**Lubarsky's Law of Cybernetic Entomology**

_There is always one more bug _

* * *

Jonathan's head felt like it was stuffed with sand, and he was aware of something digging painfully into his left temple. He groaned; the noise was raspy, and he noticed that it didn't sound right for the enclosed space of the transporter platform. _Sickbay?_ It didn't smell right, he noted. And none of the animals were chirping in the background. Though he was feeling surer every second that he really didn't want to open his eyes, the floor was very rough and uncomfortable, and the sooner he figured out what the hell had happened, the sooner he could get out of here.

_Simply fail to transport, huh? T'Pol, you're going to owe me a lot more then five bars of gold when I get my hand on you!_ Waking up to find that you've had a bad transporter experience, or have a head that feels like a football, or a body that feels as though it may have been used for a dance floor by a group of Klingons is bad enough, Jonathan felt. Waking up to find that you have all of these symptoms, but do not, in all actuality, have a ship beneath you, is something else entirely.

Instead of the reassuring matte grey of the interior of his ship, he found harsh sunlight sent stabbing pains through his squinting eyes. Every muscle protested painfully as he pushed himself up off the burning sand. He looked for any sign of Malcolm as he struggled to focus his still-groggy mind.

Rocks rose up on all sides of him, looming and somehow menacing in the oppressive silence. The sandy ground here was a very un-Terran pinkish-orange and eroded, roughly cylindrical rock columns rose sporadically out of the semi-desert floor, some towering as much as six meters into the air. The bright sunlight bled their colours into a roughly homogonous pale rust. Nothing moved under his straining eyes, and nothing registered on his tricorder as he slowly scanned out to the small instrument's limits._ Did Malcolm make it to the ship?_ He saw no sign of him here, but he could not rely on that and assume him safe.

"Malcolm? Lieutenant Reed!" His voice fell flat in the arid surroundings. Nothing stirred at the sound; he saw no flashes of movement, heard no response that indicated that there was anyone else out here to hear him.

Jonathan knew that once the twin suns finished their assent in the alien sky, it would reach unbearable temperatures. Dehydration could happen very quickly if he couldn't find shelter before then and the surrounding light-coloured rock face and columns would only act to intensify the heat; endlessly reflecting the sun's light throughout the basin. He still had the pack that Malcolm had insisted they all bring off the shuttlepod with them, which meant he had a canteen of water, a phase pistol, a few rations and a couple of very basic med supplies, along with his communicator. Not a very impressive total, to be sure. There was no way of knowing just how far he'd been transported in the accident; with luck, Malcolm had made it back to the ship, and he himself had only been transported a couple of kilometres away from the city.

Jonathan knew better then to rely on luck, however.

Jonathan pulled out is communicator, and turned up the gain as high as it would go before activating it. "Archer to Lieutenant Reed. Archer to Lieutenant Reed, come in." Static cracked unpleasantly over the open link, making him wince. He tried again, "Archer to Enterprise. T'Pol, can you hear me up there?" Still nothing. Keeping the communicator in hand, and calling every ten minutes or so, he did his best to take his bearing from the suns and set out, deeper into the rock maze.

* * *

**IBM Pollyanna Principle**

_Machines should work; People should think _

* * *

"…_come in. Malcolm, please respond"_

The voice grated painfully on his ears, the crackle and hiss of static was nearly unbearable to his throbbing head. A groan forced its way painfully through his lips, and he registered the unpleasant way his chest throbbed and burned with each breath he took. He tried to push himself up off the ground, only to collapse back against the gravel, when his arm buckled beneath him - it appeared his shoulder was damaged too. The static-filled transmission had stopped. This should be bothering him, he realized, but couldn't really remember why. Moving very carefully, he managed to roll over, and sit up carefully. Despite his care, the world spun dangerously when he moved, and he promptly leaned over to be sick. The unpleasant reality of his condition forced a few more neurons to fire tiredly, and slowly he began to clear the haze from his brain.

_The voice had been Jona – the Captain's._ _Let's see. Alien planet? Check. Badly injured armoury officer, whilst the Captain remains relatively unscathed? Also check._ So, he wasn't dreaming. And, oh yes - there was the sound of the universe giggling her tits off now. Someday, he hoped, people would stop thinking him paranoid, and allow him to actually do things the way he suggested in the first place. For one thing, he was damn sure that he wouldn't get injured nearly so bloody often. It bothered him that, because of the shear amount of time he'd been forced to spend in sickbay, he now knew Phlox in ways he had only dreamed of knowing other people. Well, one person, actually. It didn't help Malcolm's frustration any that the man he would rather have spent that time with, was also the one who was usually indirectly responsible for putting him in Phlox's care.

Yes, if Malcolm Reed listened closely enough, he could usually hear giggling. It often sounded like the Captain, right before something Malcolm had warned him about, actually happened.

Gingerly, he dug into one of the zippered pockets in the arm of his uniform for his communicator. Sliding it open, his first attempt to speak only resulted in a gravelly croak. Malcolm took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus through the remaining cobwebs, and tried again. His voice sounded like it was being forced over broken glass.

"Reed here… Where the hell are you, Captain?"

"_Malcolm! What's your status?"_

"I appear to be at the bottom of a small cliff. From the amount of rubble I'm laying on, and the way I bloody feel, I'd say I materialized at the top of it."

There was an obvious pause as the Captain took in this information. _"How bad is your situation, Lieutenant?"_

Suppressing a groan, Malcolm continued to carefully slide himself into a sitting position against the rock face. "Oh, fantastic. You, sir?"

"_Lieutenant —" _The Captain's voice was terse.

"A few cracked ribs, I think. My shoulder also appears to be in need of Phlox's torturous brand of attention. A few scrapes and bruises … Oh, and I'm pretty sure I've banged my head on the way down." Carefully shallow breathing seemed, Malcolm found, to be easing the pressure on his ribs somewhat. "The world seems to have stopped spinning for the moment, so I'm fairly sure there's no concussion."

"_You're signal's strong. I'd say you can't be more then ten kilometres away from here. Do you still have your pack?"_

Malcolm paused to take stock before responding. "Stand by. I think I see it." He put the communicator down carefully, and tried to twist onto his hands and knees. He caught the inside of his lower lip between his incisors and bit down; the discomfort providing a crude distraction from the burning ache as he slowly crawled the few yards to where he had seen the Starfleet issue material trapped under a pile of loose shale. He had to concentrate on making each muscle obey him, while he dug thorough the scree for the nearly indestructible silver casing of his pack, and he forced himself to ignore the constricting band around his chest and lungs that was the urge to breath deeply.

It was with three torn nails and a badly jammed finger that he finally managed to lift the battered, glinting case from its entombment, and the five minutes it took him to work it loose felt like an eternity. His thoughts kept drifting in a haze of adrenaline-induced detachment, and the sun beat down on the back of his head like a sledgehammer now that he was away from the sheltered overhang of the cliff and Malcolm could feel his limbs becoming clumsy and unwieldy in the enervating heat. He sat back on his heels, cradling the reassuringly solid weight of the case to his chest, allowing his mind to drift while he caught his breath. Malcolm felt strangely light-headed in his relief; after all, being trapped out here with nothing but his uniform and an empty phase pistol holster would –

_Oh, shite – phase pistol!_

Drawing on what he considered to be the Reed family's only useful legacy, Malcolm swore inventively, in a surprising array of Terran languages as he made his pain-filled way back to the rock wall. He was panting softly by the time he reached his communicator and reported. "I've lost my phase pistol somewhere on the way down I'm afraid." Then, sounding almost as an afterthought, "And it also looks like the catch on the pack must have released during my decent."

"_Then I think you have bigger concerns then a lost phase pistol, Lieutenant, don't you? How exposed are you, in your current location?" _

_No, actually I don't understand the significance of having no water and no food while trapped on an alien planet. It's just that being eaten by a large predator is so much more immediate and threatening right now, and then I won't have time to worry about starvation._ He bit the retort back with some effort, and forced himself to respond. "Not too bad, Sir. I'm in the shadow cast by the cliff, so I'm in no immediate danger of dehydration, at least for a few hours."

"_Good. Stay where you are. I can probably use the communicator's signal to pinpoint you're location, as long as you leave the channel open. Stay conscious for me, Malcolm. I would really like to get a look at that head wound before we rule out a concussion."_

_I'm pretty fucking sure I know more about having a concussion then you do, you pillock._ Malcolm couldn't quite keep the sarcastic edge from his voice. "Aye Sir."

_I'll just sit here and wait on you're expert opinion, then, shall I?_ He knew he was being petulant, but this was quickly becoming the mission that broke the proverbial camel. Taking a deep breath, he added "I'll be fine, Sir. Reed out." Wriggling carefully, Malcolm tried to find a more comfortable position as he settled down to wait.

And if it took a great deal of effort to fight off the desire to sleep, he wasn't about to admit it to anyone.

-..-

The suns were beginning to set. Jonathan had removed a strip of his blue undershirt and tied it around his forehead, in an attempt to keep the sweat out of his eyes, as he struggled over the increasingly rocky wasteland. The smooth sandy floor had started to give way to treacherous rocks about four kilometres ago. The columns had given way to solid rock walls run through with narrow channels and wash-ways of scree and silt, which slowed him down to a crawl in places. It had taken him far longer then he liked to cover the distance, worry for Malcolm fuelling every step. He'd stopped twice to rest, pausing only long enough to check in with his Lieutenant and take a bit of water from his canteen, before pushing on again. He felt like he had staggered more then hiked the last kilometre or so and his legs burned with the exertion.

Just as the edge of the first sun began to dip below the horizon, he crested the rocky dune he'd been struggling up for the last half hour through loose rock and shale that kept shifting and sliding beneath his feet. Stopping at the top to catch his breath, he took a moment to try and take his bearings while he still had the suns' full light. Lining the sun's path up with two towering, petrified tree-vines below, he heard his communicator crackle to life.

"_Nice to see you, Sir. What took you so long?" _

Jonathan was too exhausted to do more then glare down the incline, to where he could just make out the blue of Malcolm's uniform against the rocks.

_Smug bastard._

Getting down the dune on this side was, thankfully, easier then the climb up had been. It took twenty minutes, but Jonathan made it to his downed officer just as the first sun began to disappear beneath the skyline.

"Malcolm!" His Armoury Officer was propped awkwardly amongst the rubble of his passage down the cliff-side, thankfully still awake. Dark smudges stood out in sharp relief against Malcolm's naturally fair skin, making it look even paler then usual. His uniform, usually pressed and perfect, was rumpled and torn, and very, very dirty. His expression was almost petulant as he watched his superior officer take in his less-then-regulation appearance and Jonathan couldn't stop the smirk he was sure Malcolm saw when he glared back at him. He quickly got his expression under control and reached for the pack slung over his shoulder. "Let's get you an analgesic before we plan our next course."

The shot took effect quickly, leaving Malcolm with a euphoric, dreamy expression, his grey eyes blissfully half-closed as Jonathan squatted down beside his officer and offered his canteen to him. "Listen, Lieutenant. We've got only about an hour more before those suns finish setting, and we run out of twilight. We need to find something a bit more sheltered to spend the night. I know travel won't be comfortable for you right now, but I need to know; can you make it?"

The vague expression had cleared, leaving Malcolm's grey eyes alert and sharp. It was obvious the analgesic had helped enormously, and when he responded, his voice was once again clipped and professional. "I can make it, Sir. Don't worry about me; I'm sore, not dying."

Scrutinizing his tactical officer closely for any signs of bravado, Jonathan nodded. "Good. Then let's get going, shall we?" He put the canteen and med kit away carefully, before reaching down with both arms for Malcolm. With a tired grunt at the effort, he hauled him to his feet. "Ready?" At Malcolm's breathless nod, he said, "Then let's go."

They had headed toward the two petrified tree-things he had sighted earlier. The ground was a bit easier going that way, and despite Malcolm's assurances that he was fine, Jonathan could see how difficult this was for him. Catching Malcolm's eye, he smiled ruefully. "I don't care what Trip breaks next, this is the last time I am ever setting foot in Kreetassan space."

"We could always… force the …Commander to do his own… negotiations next time." Malcolm's small smile looked very wicked to Jonathan when he added, "I think… he would look… lovely in one of their …ritual costumes."

Jon laughed. "After this, I expect you'll have an entirely new proposal on my desk by next week for new away team security protocols."

"A few suggestions … have come to mind." Malcolm responded, dryly.

"Well, I might point out, the highly trained one of us is currently in much worse shape then his Captain. What does that say to your thoughts on my disregard for security?"

"It says to me that you're very, very lucky, Sir." Malcolm's voice was cold and professional again, all traces of his friendly banter gone. His face, which had been very pale, was now flushed.

Jonathan was exasperated with himself. It had been a bit tactless, given just how many of Malcolm's suggestions had proven out on this trip. _Great progress you're making with him, Jon. Keep this up, and you might just win a date to be jettisoned out an airlock of your choice when we get back._ "Malcolm, I was –"

But the Lieutenant had deliberately moved off, leaving Jonathan to ponder his friend's rather defensive attitude.

It turned out to be another kilometre to the base of the petrified trees. They had no air left for conversation now. The growing darkness was making footing very tricky, and they stumbled a lot on the uneven trail. When Malcolm had stumbled badly, and almost fallen for the fifth time, Jonathan had reached out and pulled Malcolm's arm across his shoulders, bringing him close to lean heavily on his taller frame. He was amazed when there was no protest. Sweat was beading along Malcolm's brow and trickling down his neck, despite the chill air. His skin was flushed, and Jonathan worried it wasn't all from the exertion.

Concern for Malcolm wasn't enough to completely distract him from the feel of his body pressed against his own. He could feel the strong muscles in Malcolm's body shifting beneath the fabric that separated them, and every breath Malcolm took send vibrations radiating out between them. It seemed to him, in his hyper awareness that Malcolm seemed to actually shift closer to him, seeking his heat against the chill. T_hink about Starfleet..! There's nothing more boring then Starfleet reports. _Biting the inside of his lip, he tried concentrating on how he would classify the exact colour of the alien sand when he wrote up this incident for the brass._ What the hell do you call something that's sort of purplish-orange?_ Malcolm seemed to be even closer now, and his body shuddered lightly against him in the evening chill. Jonathan groaned internally.

_I am so very, very screwed. _

* * *

**Hoare's Law of Large Problems**

_Inside every large problem, is a small problem struggling to get out _

_

* * *

_

The sort of vee-shaped hollow at the base of the trees was made in part from what once must have been strange, arboreal roots covered by millennia of fallen rock and debris. The hollow was only about two and a half meters across, and little more then one meter deep. At six foot four, Jonathan resigned himself to what would undoubtedly be a cramped and uncomfortable night.

Both men sank wearily to the ground, propped against each other and the back wall of their shelter. Soft gasps eventually levelled off, and Jonathan tried to roused his rubbery limbs to get them set for the night. It was obvious from the shallow pants and tight expression on Malcolm's face that reserves he'd used to get himself this far, were played out. The chill night air was beginning to register on sweat-damp skin, and Jonathan knew it would get a lot colder before the dawn finally came.

With a muttered oath, he dragged his protesting body away from the comfortable heat of Malcolm's side. "Malcolm? Malcolm!" Jonathan had to shake him sharply before he responded. When the other man finally looked up, Jonathan continued carefully, worried at Malcolm's lack of focus and slow response, "I'm going to have to see if I can find some loose rocks outside to use for warmth – they'll hold their heat longer piled in a compact heap then the exposed wall. I'll be very close, and I won't be gone long. When I get back, I want to have a better look at that head wound of yours."

"…Not necessary… I assure you, Captain." Jonathan thought his breathing was definitely shallower then it was an hour ago. The analgesic must be wearing off. It was a long way for him to hike, with all that bruising.

Jonathan snorted, but smiled good-naturedly, a little relieved by this very predictable stance. "Stubborn Brit. I'll be right back."

It was getting less agreeable outside their meagre shelter by the minute, and Jonathan was thankfully it didn't take him long to find enough rocks for his purpose. The suns had now finished setting, and the rising wind was skirling unpleasantly around the basin floor, whipping up small dust devils of fine, abrading sand. Thin moonlight lit up the strange landscape, making it even more alien then before. The pale silver light bleached everything of its colour, turning orange sand beige, and rusty rock a kaki-brown smear in the darkness. Jonathan finished placing the last armload of rocks in the most protected corner of the cave, piling them carefully to try and maximize their heat retention. He could see Malcolm unmoving outline no more than a meter away, his presence only detectable as a lighter patch of darkness against the gloom.

The phase pistol heated the rocks reluctantly, but after a few minutes, they had begun to throw enough heat to make the confined space comfortable. The resultant glow was almost like a real campfire, except with a steady, un-flickering light. It was comforting, somehow, reminding him of camping trips with his dad as a boy, out in Montana.

"Alright Malcolm, let's get a look at that head wound first." Seeing him about to protest, he quickly knelt in front of him. He reached out to cradle Malcolm's cheek and waited until he looked up at him. The skin was hot under his hands, and his eyes looked glazed. _Oh, shit._ Staring intently, he admonished, "I'd at least like to clean it out, if nothing else." His voice was gentle, almost coaxing his feverish Lieutenant. Jonathan was aware of the soft quality of the skin beneath his palm, but at that moment he was more intent on keeping Malcolm's gaze, trying to determine how sick he might be.

He saw Malcolm's confused gaze flicker quickly to his lips and back, so fast he thought it might be his own wishful thinking. He felt Malcolm lean almost imperceptibly closer, watching him intently. The moment seemed to stretch impossibly in the silence, and Jon found himself holding his breath, unsure of what was happening. Suddenly, Malcolm blinked, startled, and pulled himself back, becoming alert and remote once again.

Brought back to the moment, Jonathan released his hold and jerkily got to his feet to grab the med kit. Under the circumstances, he wasn't sure whether he was disappointed, or relieved.

With some difficulty, Jonathan managed to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. Kneeling awkwardly behind his slumped officer, he deftly guided Malcolm's head so that he could maximize the barely-adequate light. The hair at the base of Malcolm's skull was sticky and dark with matted blood, the visceral fluid making everything slippery. Jonathan clenched his jaw tightly, breathing through his nose while fighting down a wave of irritation for Malcolm's stubborn insistence that he was fine. He pushed the feeling away, firmly. Getting angry with Malcolm wouldn't solve anything right now, and would probably prove to be about as effective as trying to empty the ocean with a funnel. It was just the way Malcolm was.

He poured a small amount of their water into a cupped hand, and, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could, Jonathan began working the blood out of Malcolm's hair, hoping the wound underneath wasn't as bad as it looked from all the mess.

"If T'Pol follows her original plan, we can expect the Enterprise to re-enter the system to pick us up the day after tomorrow. We'll probably want more water — not to mention a bigger shelter before then, but all in all, we're not too badly off." Jon kept his tone light and conversational as he spoke, more to distract Malcolm as he worked, than out of any real desire to think about his lost ship.

Malcolm twisted his head around to ask, dryly, "Did you happen to bring a divining rod, then?" His eyes were a little wild-looking, their darkness standing out starkly against his pale face. Two bright spots of colour stood out on his cheeks, almost seeming to glow.

"Wha-?"

Malcolm cut him off before he could get his thoughts in order at this unexpected verbal onslaught. "A divining rod. This is a planet that is very surface-poor in water. The Kreetassan's ancestors had to dig forever to find underground waterways to build their aqueducts. Did your survival training include how to find underground rivers? Mine didn't."

"Lieutenant!" Jonathan had worked most of the blood out of the way, now. In the steady glow thrown by the super-heated rock fire, Jon examined the ugly-looking gash. Thankfully, it seemed to be clotted, and was only seeping sluggishly after the thorough washing. "We're going to be fine, Malcolm. I know you believe in realism, but sometimes you can defeat yourself before you even try." Dispite the informality of his name, the tone he used was the Captain's; closed and with all the authority of a command.

Reaching for the small med-kit, he was relieved to see some of the powerful pre-soaked antiseptic wipes he'd known Dr. Phlox to use in Decon the few times they'd had serious injuries on an away mission. They weren't as good as getting someone to sickbay, but they were much better then the water out of a canteen.

Jonathan could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders, and his ruthlessly ridged posture, that Malcolm was probably dismissing his words as 'dangerously optimistic', but didn't have the energy to try to argue with him.

He worked in silence, finishing up with the medicated cloth, and bandaging the wound as best he could. He also made Malcolm drink down a vial of red-ish fluid from their supplies. Pholx harvested it from his slugs, he really didn't want to know the details, but remembered his insisting that it be included in all their emergency kits as it was the best broad-spectrum antibiotic he knew. _Well, here's hoping, Doc._

Waiting while Malcolm struggled out of the sleeves of his uniform, he wondered about the rest of his crew. Had they gotten away in time? Did the Romulan's detect them? Had Trip finished installing the injectors? That, at least, would mean that they had weapons back on line. T'Pol was a good first officer; he trusted her completely with his ship, but worry still gnawed at the back of his thoughts. He felt restless and impotent with his ship hiding out beyond his reach.

Well, at least Malcolm presented a problem he _could _do something about. He reached over to help peel off the jumpsuit as Malcolm finally got his arms free. A large, purple and blue bruise the size of a diagnostic pad was revealed. Running down the deltoid muscle and along his shoulder blade, Jon probed it gently, testing the damage as best he could. The skin, here too, was flushed under his hand, damp from the exhausting trek here. His fingers slide smoothly, testing carefully, watching as Malcolm grunted with pain, despite his care over a few especially tender spots. While the skin didn't appear to be broken, it was obviously tender. Well, beyond the analgesic he'd given him already, there wasn't much he else he could do. The ribs, on the other hand, he could tape - though not very thoroughly with what supplies he had here. When he finished, he and Malcolm attempted to get comfortable, leaning closely together against the rock wall of their cramped shelter. The makeshift 'fire' helped considerably, but the wind was whipping around their encampment now, and the wide opening did little to block it out. Looking over to Malcolm to make a comment, he stopped. The British man somehow gave the impression of being slumped over while still holding himself with his characteristically perfect posture. He was frowning slightly and his gaze was a million miles away as he brooded. Every now and then, Jonathan watched tremors run through his body, as he tried to suppress the shuddering paroxysms, brought on by fever.

"I think we should file a complaint with the management in the morning, Malcolm. These accommodations are hardly what I'd consider up to acceptable standards."

Malcolm smiled slightly. "I'm not sure what kind of apology you would consider acceptable from the Kreetassans, but I can certainly think of a few suggestions."

Jon grinned, boyishly. "Now that is an image I'd like to keep in my head for a long time. You, in that ridicules get up of theirs…"

"If it's all the same to you, Sir, I'd rather not," Malcolm said dryly.

Glad that he'd at least be able to distract Malcolm from his thoughts, Jonathan enjoyed the comfortable silence between them as he began to surrender to sleep.

He slept fitfully that night, worry for his friend and officer forcing him into wakefulness every time the other man stirred. When Jonathan did manage to sleep, his dreams were distorted and spasmodic.

He was back on the Enterprise and he was in his quarters, sprawled across his bunk, with the red sheets pulled up to his ears. It was so unbelievably comfortable; he didn't think he would ever move again. Trip would just have to tie-in bridge operations to his consol, and he would run the ship from in here. Suddenly he was cold. T'Pol was there, and she had taken his blankets and was shaking him, and she was telling him that he was the Captain, that he had to get up and meet with the Kreetassans to discuss Alvera trees, and that Porthos was already there, ready to pee on the First Minister if he didn't' get there on time to apologize and she was still shaking him —

Jonathan sat up with a start. Staring blankly at the dying rock-glow, it was a moment before he remembered where he was. _Obviously, no more dried ration bars for me right before bed_, he thought in disgust. There was moonlight now; the soft pinkish light that illuminated their cave, so different from the yellow-white light of his ship. Blinking a few times to focus in the unfamiliar light, he turned, wanting to check on Malcolm while he was awake.

Malcolm was huddled tightly against the rock beside him, shivering with hard jerks and spasms, head drawn down between his shoulders, arms wrapped around his chest in a tight embrace, trying to ward off the chill. His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth drawn into a thin line as he pressed his lips together tightly.

Shifting so that he was now pressed up against the other man, Jon gently eased Malcolm over to cradle him gently against his chest and side and wrapped him tightly in his arms, trying to share as much of his own heat as he could. Gradually, the deep shivering lessened, and Malcolm's rigid body began to relax in his semi-embrace. Jon looked down to find grey eyes looking back at him.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Mmm-hmm." The response was languid, his gaze never leaving Jonathan's as he continued to study him with glassy eyes, still bright with fever. When he spoke it was very solemn, and with an air of discovery to his words. "You have really beautiful green eyes, Jonathan. Very, very green, like the frogs Maddie and I used to catch when we were children."

Jon closed his eyes in frustration. _Oh, now he's interested! _Without opening his eyes, Jonathan ran his hand soothingly along his back. "Go back to sleep, Malcolm. We'll talk about what you did with those frogs in the morning."

Malcolm actually giggled. "Oh, Maddie and I used to sneak them into Father's uniform locker right before he would leave on assignment."

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest at this glimpse of a much less disciplined Malcolm and his early rebellion.

-..-


	3. Chapter 3

_On a quick side note, I appoligize for this taking so long, as it has been written for some time, but I found myself having some difficulty when I had to edit it for the'R' rating on FFN. If you are of a somewhat wicked mindset (like me), and wish to read the explicit version of this chapter, it is posted on my live journal, at http COLON DOUBLE SLASH nyruserra DOT livejournal DOT com SLASH 11309 DOT html#cutid1 (just replace all of the capatalized bits with the appropriate punctuation and remove the spaces. You can also find the link for my livejournal in my profile and just navagate to this story using the sidebar on the left.)_

* * *

**Malcolm Reed, On Applied Murphaic Law **

_-Anything that can go wrong, will- _

**III**

* * *

Non-Reciprocal Law of Expectation

_-Negative expectations yield negative results_

_Positive expectations yield negative results-_

* * *

Bright light against his eyelids was the first thing that registered. Waking up each day always held unusual risks when you're the Captain of the Earth's first deep-space exploration vessel. Would he be handcuffed to the cargo bay doors again? Or maybe this time he'd wake to find himself locked in a Suliban prison cell. Or better yet, back on Rura Penthe mining dilithium with a bunch of smelly Klingons. 

Jonathan always felt that he had won some kind of victory in his day if he at least managed to start it off by waking up in his own bed.

Today, the odds didn't look too good. His whole body ached – he felt worse then he did the morning after his first meeting with Shran. _Why am I sleeping up against the wall? _It was at this point that he realized the smell he'd been trying to analysis was his own. _Well, that at least doesn't rule out a night of drinking with Trip. First thing, then, is obviously a shower… _

Cautiously cracking an eye open, he felt his hopes sink when he saw the walls of their cramped shelter closing in on him. He could feel Malcolm still propped up on his other side, where his head had come to rest on his shoulder, his breath moist and warm against his ear. Blinking slowly against the sudden swell of desire, Jonathan forced himself to concentrate on easing out from under the sleeping man without waking him.

"Good morning, Captain." Warm grey eyes regarded him steadily. _Figures; even with cracked ribs, and enough drugs in his system to take down a mule, he's still a light sleeper,_ Jonathan thought, amused. It was just so… _Malcolm._ Taking advantage of the moment to study him, Jonathan noted that his eyes seemed clearer this morning, his expression more alert. There was a rare openness in his expression that Jonathan loved. He remembered a similar expression on his face during their last talk right before being lead out for execution on the a Civil-war threatened planet they'd gone to study. After their rescue, in the close confines of the Suliban cell ship, he'd remained playful, even teasing him for loosing his own communicator after everything that they'd just been through. He'd been prepared to die for his Captain's beliefs that day. Jonathan wasn't really sure to this day if Malcolm had bought into his high ideals of protecting a pre-warp culture, but he strongly suspected his reasoning hadn't mattered. It was enough for the Lieutenant to know that it was what his Captain felt was right. That kind of loyalty had amazed him. He just wished that his heart would quit insisting on taking it as a sign of Malcolm's regard for Jonathan, as opposed to a Lieutenant's duty to his Captain. He grimaced at the thought, and just like that, Malcolm's expression became closed and unrevealing. _Damn._

The morning proved to be every bit as awkward as he feared. Malcolm was mortified by his behaviour of the night before, never mind that he'd been feverish and doped up like a prize racing horse on derby day. Any other person would have waxed poetic about some minor embarrassment, like the girl they used to know. Or even have the bad luck of having full blown delusions about little blue elves or some such rubbish; something they could shrug off in the morning, resigned to be teased about it for an indecent period of time, and chalk it up as part of the glorious experience of male bonding. Malcolm had to make a pass at his Captain. A true proverbial white elephant. He shouldn't be surprised, really. He had long since learned that he had some kind of cosmic bulls-eye on his forehead; if something could conceivably go wrong for him, it almost certainly did. It was all a matter of timing.

Malcolm tended to move though life as if he was the last man standing in a very hostile game of tag —Good British upbringing being what it was, and all.

* * *

Bill Jone's Theorem (Supplemental)

_- A Smith and Wesson beat four aces -  
_

* * *

Malcolm watched the Captain stride agitatedly around their tiny shelter, arguing Malcolm's insistence that he take their one remaining phase pistol with him. His face was drawn into an intense frown as he paced, occasionally stopping to glare at his armoury officer's calm resistance. Jonathan Archer was a powerful man, the kind of man who wanted to hold the Gods responsible for not doing it right the first time. He was loyal and fierce, and was learning patience, albeit slowly. He was not suited to small spaces, or arguing with un-agitated underlings. 

"Malcolm, I am not leaving you here without any kind of protection!" The Captain had always been the opposite of Malcolm, even more so the Trip. He was extroverted and volatile; he wore his emotions right out there where anyone could see them. That kind of strength made him a great leader. It also made him a loud opponent in a disagreement.

Wincing against the renewed throbbing in his temples, Malcolm regarded him coolly. "With all due respect, Sir, I think you fail to appreciate the situation. I have shelter, of a sort. We have seen nothing to indicate that there are any large predators in this local. No tracks, no spore, and absolutely no sign that this shelter has been used by any kind of large animal, despite it's size and the heat of the day. I should be fine. You on the other hand, will be exploring areas that are further out of the heat and that, hopefully, will contain water, and therefore, will have a much higher chance of containing hostile indigenous life forms. You know, I usually know my job very well, and I am of no use to you taking foolish risks. For once, please just trust me to do my job, and take the damn pistol!" He hadn't really meant to lose his temper like that, but the frustration of Jonathan's constant second-guessing was finally becoming more then he could take.

"Malcolm, I –" Malcolm watched him, but Jonathan seemed unable to finish his thought. He wasn't surprised. What was there to say?

"Just go. Find some water, if you can. I'll be here when you return." He gazed at Malcolm for a long moment, with an unreadable expression, before turning to go without at word.

When had things begun to go so badly between them? Malcolm wasn't sure. He supposed it didn't really matter now, anyway. When he had been trapped in Shuttlepod One with Trip, he'd spoken about how the Enterprise had begun to feel like home, how the crew felt like family… Jonathan Archer had been a big part of that feeling. His Captain's trust had meant everything to him, and he'd had it. That had slowly begun to change, and Malcolm was damned if he could figure out why. Slowly, missions in which he actually accompanied the Captain became fewer and fewer. His suggestions for safety measures or common sense security measures were railroaded. The Captain practically ran the other way if he tried to request a meeting in his Ready Room to discuss any of his recommendations. Perhaps he'd been a bit too open with his Captain. Perhaps he'd relaxed too much in his superior officer's presence, and had somehow betrayed the actual depth of feeling he had for him? He'd probably made the man uncomfortable, and being the type of man that he was, he was trying to 'diffuse' the situation without having to actually 'hurt' anyone's feelings. Malcolm would have actually preferred a blunt discussion behind closed doors, where they could clear the air, and he could get back to doing his job. Malcolm was fine with the fact that he couldn't have the man he lusted after. He understood his duty, and would never let his personal feelings interfere with his defence of the ship, or its personnel. He was a little bit hurt that Jonathan didn't trust him to do so.

-..-

In the end, Jonathan had taken the phase pistol with him, at Malcolm's unrelenting insistence, and headed out into the faint blue dawn. He hoped to secure a better shelter for the night at the very least, but what he really wanted to find was water. With one canteen between them and only another thirty hours or so before the Enterprise was likely to return, their situation wasn't desperate but could easily get very, very uncomfortable. If, however, his ship was unable to return on schedule, that source of clean water would become absolutely crucial. Jonathan's thinking veered away from the implications to his ship at that thought, instead forcing himself to think of this excursion as nothing more threatening then good survival sense.

Malcolm had of course insisted that he was perfectly able to assist him; and he probably was able to run circles around anyone else, injuries or no, but Jonathan didn't want to risk a return of the fever he'd had last night. If Malcolm were to have a relapse, he had no idea what he'd do; he certainly didn't have any more of Phlox's weird drug to give him. Another nagging responsibility he had to push down as something he could do nothing about.

It was actually somewhat of a relief to be away from the tempting Lieutenant, and he felt disgusted with himself that he could even be thinking of that right now, with everything that he _should _be worrying about instead. Resolutely, he forced his focus back to the task at hand.

He wished that he could say that the planet had been transformed in the morning's light, and if this were one of the adventure novels he'd liked to read as an adolescent, he was sure it would have been. Instead, he felt, the planet was even more ugly and unforgiving then it had first seemed when he'd woken up yesterday. The only difference, as far as he could tell, was that there was more life stirring in the relative coolness of the early morning, and he saw several more of the strange antlered jackrabbits he'd noticed yesterday, and decided to take that as a good sign, since they had to be drinking _something._

The vine-like trees rose from the hard ground sporadically, like the remnants of a bizarre petrified forest; this whole region must have looked very different once. He had moved into some kind of basin, what probably had been a small, but deep lake. He wondered if the Kreetassan's had any record of the land before it had changed so dramatically. Maybe it was the result of their ancestors' actions that had left the planet like this – war, or pollution, maybe.

He was so lost in thought he never registered the unassuming avian cry until it was practically on top of him, sounding harsh with triumph.

-..-

Sweat trickled along his temples and tickled the soft skin along the small of his back. The heat was beginning to return, Jonathan noticed. He'd have to find shelter soon, but he hadn't seen much for caves in the open area of the basin, and with the suns almost directly overhead, there wasn't even much to be found for shadows. He supposed —

The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, and a tingling sensation crawled along his scalp. Some residual Neolithic instinct was sending messages to his hind brain, and then were getting more insistent all—

Jonathan stopped thinking and dove for the loose-packed ground. Wind rushed over him, marking the almost silent passage of some huge leathery ornithoid. The air it left behind smelled coppery and sweet, reminding Jonathan of rotting oranges and blood.

Adrenaline surged through his system, driving him to his feet and behind the only cover in his vicinity. He was breathing hard and fast, blood pounding in his ears as he brought his pistol up and wheeled around to search the sky for his attacker.

A harsh cry, strangely small in the still air was his only warning before it was diving at him, feet lined with razor –like bony protrusions outstretched to cut him down where he stood. He pressed the trigger, hard, squeezing off three shots, before the nightmarish creature was wheeling away, to circle again, looking for another opening. Jonathan could see where his phaser blasts had bit deeply into the flesh, to drop thick, steaming green liquid upon the landscape below.

Jon didn't think he'd done it any serious damage, and he'd hit it at point blank range. He wasn't likely to get another opportunity like that last one; the creature knew to be wary in its approach now. He needed a less exposed position, quickly. Watching carefully, he waited until the avian's spiral was at its furthest arch from his crouched position, and took off, sprinting hard for the dubious safety of the ancient bank, where the petrified trees should interfere with the large creature's flight.

He could hear it now, wind rasping like tearing paper over it's leathery wings as it glided, the sound coming closer, though Jon didn't dare turn to look, when the ground suddenly fell away, and he was sliding, blinded by dust and dirt, choking and spitting as he landed in a painful heap on hard-packed sand.

An outraged scream filled his ears, as he forced his aching body to roll, expecting attack at any moment; sure the creature would be on him before he could even get his pistol back up to defend himself.

The attack never came. Minutes went by, with the only sound in the dusty silence the harsh barking of his own breath. _What had happened? Where the hell had it gone?_ It was cooler here. - The baking glare of the sun wasn't working to overheat his tired body anymore, and he had the remembered sensation of falling, sliding, down –

-..-

When Jonathan had come back some five or six hours after his abrupt departure, he found Malcolm sitting out front of the shelter, calmly attempting to sew a rip in the arm of his uniform. He watched him in astonishment for a few minutes. His purple-blue jumpsuit was peeled off down to his waist so that he could twist it enough to work on. Jonathan allowed himself a moment to watch him, unobserved. His compact body was lean and hard, without an extra ounce anywhere to mar its efficiency. Sparse dark hair trailed from his chest down a flat stomach, and followed a trim waist to disappear invitingly into the remaining zip of his coverall. His dark hair was spiky, as though Malcolm had been running his hands through it unconsciously. He looked adorable like that, the ruffled hair making ruining his not-so-perfect grooming. Jon grinned, and moved to join him.

"Expecting an inspection, Lieutenant?"

Not taking his eyes off his task, Malcolm replied, with a ghost of a grin, "An officer at his best is always clean and pressed. Surely you had that drilled into you at the Academy?"

Stifling a laugh, Jonathan eased himself onto a nearby rock. "You're actually trying to get another Eagle Scout badge, aren't you? Not satisfied with out-achieving me by three, you have to make it four – Sending me out to do all the really dirty work was just part of your master plan."

"That's it, I'm afraid you've caught me; But it's too late, you know."

"Oh, it is, is it?"

Malcolm answered in a perfectly mater-of-fact voice, "Of course. I've always been better looking then you. " He watched Archer's startled expression from the corner of his eye as he finished mending the tear. After a moment, Jonathan burst out laughing. It was a good sound. A comfortable one that had been lacking between them since this ghastly mission began. Putting away the tiny sewing kit, he turned to look properly at Jonathan for the first time.

"Good Lord, what on Earth happened to you?"

-..-

Jonathan knew that he probably looked more dead then alive at this point. He was filthy, with sand and grit worked into his clothing in so many places he was beginning to feel as though his skin were being slowly sandpapered as he moved. His muscles ached from the fall, and equally difficult climb back to the surface, and it was all he could do not to think longingly of hot showers and skilful fingers gently rubbing his abused body until he turned to goo. He groaned softly and allowed his head to fall forward between his loosely clasped hands; to ease the strain, he told himself - most definitely _not _because he was even slightly embarrassed by the stupidity of his escape.

"I fell," he mumbled

"Pardon?" He could feel Malcolm staring at him.

"I fell - down a hole, if you must know, Lieutenant."

Malcolm just watched him with narrow eyes, waiting expectantly.

He gave in eventually, detailing his small adventure, while trying to gloss over the ignoble finer points.

"A cave?" Malcolm asked intently. "And you're sure it was completely undisturbed by these large raptors?"

Jonathan gave Malcolm's completely characteristic reaction the amused smirk it deserved. "More of a cavern, really; and I'm here, aren't I?"

Malcolm waved that off, and continued his interrogation.

-..-

It was just beginning the transition from evening twilight to dusk when Malcolm finally struggled down the craggy terrain towards the Jonathan's cavern, and the promise of fresh water. Their canteen had grown very light by the time they had gotten within a kilometre of the place, and only the promise of the luxury of having enough water to actually wash his grimy face had kept him moving at all. His head throbbed with every step, a fact he was firmly keeping to himself, and his side ached with the strain of supplying oxygen to his starved lungs.

Thankfully, the surrounding structure of the underground cavern had forced the ground under Jonathan to give way gradually, making it possible to climb down carefully, without too much struggle. The opening was narrow; Jonathan and his bloody horseshoe must have sprinted over just the right spot to trigger the cave-in of what must have once been part of an underground waterway. The water had obviously receded since then leaving behind a large, hollowed out chamber with a soft sandy bottom and strange domed ceiling.

His tactician's soul sang. There was no sign of tracks in the sand, other then Jon's, or scat, to indicate that any animal had every made its presence known here. At the back of the chamber, Jonathan showed him where water still seeped into a couple of small stone depressions, a sluggish current keeping the water renewed and fresh as it drained endlessly back to some stygian sea deep within the planet, and at that moment Malcolm felt it was quite possibly the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

Some quick scrambling and a bit of hard work, and their new shelter was as comfortable as a sandy hole in the ground could be, Malcolm supposed. They found some thick, almost petrified roots of some sort in the debris near the collapsed entrance. With a bit more work, they piled the fibrous shoots in a make-shift fireplace dug into the sandy floor and edged with rounded stones collected outside. Using the phase pistol to ignite them, they sat back, content to eat their bland ration bars while enjoying the luxury of a real campfire.

"Well, Malcolm I guess we don't need to worry much about posting a watch here, so I think even you can relax your paranoia and sleep soundly tonight, like normal people."

It was said teasingly, with no hint of malice, but it gave Malcolm an opening to clear away something that had been gnawing at him more and more since in recent months. Coming to a quick decision, he spoke quietly, "I know you don't regard my abilities very highly, Captain, and I wish I knew why that had changed." Watching Jonathan, he could see that he had his full attention, so he continued, a bit more firmly, "You hand-picked me for this mission, and I guess somewhere along the way I failed to live up to your expectations. I know I've done a damn fine job for you, though, and the safety of your ship and its crew has always been my highest priority. At what point did I lose your trust in me?"

Jonathan looked away from him for a moment, and when he looked back, Malcolm could see on his face that he understood exactly what the he was talking about. "Malcolm, I think very highly of you as an officer, and as a friend. There is nobody who I would rather have serving at my Tactical Station then you. I have always been proud to have you on my ship."

Malcolm had to sternly push down the small thrill of pleasure at this praise, and doggedly continued. "Why didn't you want me on this mission, then? You've practically made me impotent on the ship by your lack of regard for simple safety measures, you know. Though, I have noticed that you show a lot less reluctance when I assign one of my officers to accompany you in my stead. You're quick to order me to accompany the Sub-commander, or Ensign Sato, but you don't seem comfortable in my presence. Why?" Malcolm steeled himself for what was likely to be the Captain's answer, and waited.

Jonathan Archer looked at his hands, clasped between his bent knees, as the sounds of the fire filled the cavern If it wasn't for the air of contemplation in his gaze, Malcolm would have thought he was avoiding the question. He seemed to come to a decision, and looked up to catch Malcolm's eye before speaking, his deep voice filling the cavern.. "You're right, Malcolm, I have been against the idea of having you on an away mission with me, especially in small groups. I'm sorry I made you feel that it was because I ever doubted you abilities to perform your duty, but it was the only way I could perform mine."

"I don't understand." Malcolm said it carefully, trying to suppress the dawning suspicion growing inside him.

Jonathan chuckled, dryly. "No, I don't suppose that you do." He looked away briefly. "I began developing feelings for one of my officers a while ago now. It started off as fairly innocent, but the last half year or so, it's become a lot harder to ignore. So I try to limit my contact with them, try to avoid situations when we'll be alone together, or in small groups where I might do or say something that would make them uncomfortable." He dropped his head, allowing his shoulders to slump, staring hard at his clasped hands. His voice, when he spoke, was resigned. "This is about my inability, Lieutenant, not yours."

* * *

Paul's law

_- You can't fall off the floor. -_

* * *

Both men were silent, eyes straying to one another, only to be quickly averted once caught. Finally, Malcolm spoke quietly. "Why didn't you ever say anything?" He asked it carefully, as though testing an idea. 

"That certainly wouldn't have been appropriate. I'm your commanding officer out here, Mister Reed. What if I approached you and you didn't have the same… regard for me? What kind of position would that put _you_ in? I can't take the risk of forcing one of my crew in that kind of situation, no matter how much I may want to."

Malcolm regarded him for a moment. "I think that that's an excuse."

"Lieutenant, I'm the Captain of a starship. This is not some Earth-orbiting vessel, were a port is only a few hours away when things go wrong. I absolutely cannot abuse my position by 'making a move' on one of my officers, it wouldn't –"

The feel of the armoury officer's mouth against his own prevented him from continuing his train of though - it prevented him from thinking at all.

Malcolm's lips were cool and rough from the exposure to the sun, and his kiss was firm and lingering, though he made no attempt to deepen the contact. He seemed content to massage Jon's lips with his own, thoroughly imprinting the feel of Jon's breath on his face and his mouth moving beneath his, before pulling back slightly to regard Jonathan with an almost predatory smirk.

When he spoke, his voice was husky, and confident. "I think that that definitely counted as the first move, Sir, so I think it's time you kindly pulled your head out of your arse and did something about it."

Wonderingly, Jonathan reached out to run a hand over Malcolm's cheek, rasping his fingers lightly over the stubble he encountered. Malcolm leaned into his open palm, watching Jonathan's green eyes as he gave him a deliberate smile, inviting him to be bold.

With a soft growl, the almost-sound vibrating deep in his chest, Jonathan surged forward to burry both his hands in Malcolm's dark hair. Using his new leverage, he pulled back, tilting Malcolm's face to lay teasing kisses along his face and neck. He took the time to thoroughly explore the high cheekbones, wide forehead and the sensitive skin along the jaw, at the junction of neck and ear, earning an encouraging sigh when he sucked the skin lightly against his teeth before leaving off to kiss his way to the corners of Malcolm's mouth. Slowly, he brushed his lips lightly along Malcolm's full bottom one, and then pulled away, enjoying Malcolm's soft groan of disappointment.

Malcolm's breathing was ragged, softly rasping in the charged air between them. Neither of them spoke as Jonathan regarded him, cognisant of the other man's injuries as he contemplated his next move. When Malcolm moved to manipulate the zipper of his uniform, Jonathan allowed him to manoeuvre it down his chest, twisting out of his grasp when it reached his waist. Malcolm ran his hands caressingly over his arms, shoulders and stomach as he helped Jonathan remove the top half. Jonathan sighed, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of Malcolm's slightly rough and calloused hands running exploring over his exposed skin, lingering over some particularly sensitive areas until he had Jonathan almost gasping for air with just his touch. "Mal –" He said it almost pleadingly, not sure what it was he was asking for, but needing to know Malcolm was okay with this new direction, that he wasn't feeling the strain of his injuries too much to continue.

"Shhh – it's alright, Jon. I'm fine." Malcolm seemed to know instinctively what he was asking, speaking reassuringly before Jonathan could find the words to articulate his concern.

Leaning his forehead against Malcolm's collarbone, he nodded against the exposed skin. _When had he done that?_ The scent of sandalwood and musk was floating off Malcolm's warm skin, invading his senses. Everything was becoming lost in a haze, with only the soft mummer of Malcolm's encouragements, and the hiss and popping of the fire punctuating the silence.

Malcolm had started to tug the half-discarded jumpsuit from his hips, his touch shaking slightly, though Jonathan was too far gone to wonder if it was from lust or strain. Carefully he manoeuvred it down Jonathan's kneeling form to get it down to his knees, as Jonathan panted, trying to focus on what was happening. This had to stop, Malcolm really wasn't strong enough for this, but there was no way in hell he could make himself back away now. His body slowly burned under his teasing touches, his eyes stripping him almost dispassionately in the flickering light.

"This has been building for too long." Again, Malcolm spoke before he could even begin to formulate his objection, giving him permission for what he was about to let happen.

Still, he had to try. Shifting so that he could look at Malcolm's face, bronzed by the firelight, he smiled tenderly, opening himself to this man in his appeal. "Malcolm, you're not well enough for this." _Stop me, because God help me, I can't stop by myself._

Malcolm's tone was sharp; a harsh contrast to the soft, seductive rasp of a few minutes before. "Forgive the insubordination, _Sir,_ but sod off. I'm bloody well enough for this. But I am most definitely not well enough to sit here arguing with you!"

Any further argument Jonathan may have made was lost as Malcolm again took control of the situation. The sand was cool under his warm skin and he found it a tantalizing contrast to Malcolm's heated contact as they moved together in the wavering firelight. With wicked skill Malcolm manipulated his body, stretching him out for his pleasured torment. He was brought to the brink of sanity, and he felt as though his whole world had narrowed to that agonizing, burning touch, and he heard himself begging in a voice that sounded like whiskey poured through glass.

"You're just going to have to be patient, Jon." Malcolm's voice was tinged with affection and amusement, but there was strain there too .

"Remind me to confine you to quarters when we get back, Lieutenant. For Insubordination."

The crackle and hiss of their small fire was the only sound in their shelter, aside from their soft moans as they switched from one form of communication to another, more primitive. Jonathan watched the flickering shadows of Malcolm's lean body move across the strangely rounded stone ceiling above him. He was completely lost in the surreal sensation of having the other man surrounding him so completely, and when he would have closed his eyes against the flood of pleasure, Malcolm commanded them open, sweat beading on his high cheekbones and down his jaw.

"Open you eyes Jon." The command was panted out harshly, breath too short for speech. "Don't you - don't you dare - keep them closed."

When they finally lay entwined on the floor of the cavern, Malcolm allowed himself the luxurious feeling of simply exisitingin the moment before pulling his thought together and pushing himself up on his elbows. Still panting harshly, he looked down to see Jonathan's green eyes regarding him with fond amusement.

"For someone who was so insistent that I keep my eyes open, you don't follow your own rules too well, do you?"

Malcolm gave a contented laugh, his lips quirking in a small smile. "I guess I'll just have to try harder next time, now won't I?" Pain flared up at the movement and Malcolm winced against the stinging burn. The contented atmosphere was immediately lost as Jon's face clouded.

He tried to sit up. "Malcolm –"

"Don't. I won't sit here and listen to you ruin this with regrets. I'll be fine. I've had far worse, I assure you. And if I'm going to suffer Phlox's ministrations for a little longer then normal because of what's happened here, I will gladly accept it as the price for what I – and I hope, we, have gained."

Jonathan grinned at him, almost shyly. "Phlox will think you've hit your head. You may have him very worried if you cooperate too much, sweetheart. I wouldn't want you to end up in Sickbay even longer, while he runs a battery of tests on you."

"No?" He asked playfully, revelling in the endearment, and stretched languorously, despite his protesting ribs, allowing skin to pull tight over his abdomen, drawing attention to his still partially erect cock. The look on Jonathan's face was worth it anyway.

"I have some rather involved plans for your immediate future, Mister Reed, and I don't plan on waiting any longer then absolutely necessary to follow through with them." Jonathan pulled Malcolm's compact body down to his, tucking his head beneath his chin to speak against his hair. "I seem to recall having ordered you confined to quarters upon our return."

"Oh, and this helps you further your plans for me? Locking me away?"

"I didn't specify whose quarters, now did I?" Jonathan leered.

For once, maybe his disastrous tendencies had worked in his favour. After all, look at all he had gained from this one.

Or maybe it was just because Jonathan was there with his horseshoe, after all. Malcolm decided that for once, he didn't care.

Some people just have all the luck.

-..-

Malcolm was sprawled comfortably in bed, enjoying the beautiful freedom of movement that had come with a thorough visit with Phlox upon his return to the Enterprise. His shoulder was completely healed, only a faint yellow discolouration lingering to show what had happened. His ribs were no longer tender, and Phlox had agreed that if he continued to take it easy, he could expect to be back on duty in as little as three days.

For once, Malcolm was content to wait; especially when it gave him so much extra time to spend with Jonathan.

Jonathan stirred against him, kissing his way up his neck to his ear, the action more affectionate then intended to arouse. "You know Malcolm. I've always wondered where in the world you got your, well, rebellious streak. I mean, I know all the Reed men before you were in the Royal Navy ….

Malcolm flipped over, to lie next to him, on his stomach. "Actually, I always sort of admired one of my great-great-great uncles. He was in the military too, of course, but he actually went into the Air force in America. I've seen pictures, and I even favour him, a bit.

Jonathan smiled. "Well, he must have been a good looking man, then." He got a playful swat for his efforts, before Malcolm continued.

"He was an engineer, and was very well known to have worked on several projects for the country's space agency of the time." He paused, while Jonathan reached over to the bunk side table for his ice tea. "Strangely enough, he's actually remembered most I believe, for codifying some rather amusing advise and adages."

"Oh? What was this meta Reed's name?"

"Murphy. Capt. Ed Murphy."

Jonathan nearly choked on his drink. He looked at Malcolm carefully, for any signs that he was somehow making fun of him. "Let me get this straight: Your family hero is, in fact, perhaps the ultimate pessimist of all time? The one who says everything will go horribly, and when it rains, it pours?"

"Actually, after having served here on the Enterprise, I've rather come to think of Uncle Murphy as something of an optimist."

Malcolm watched, bemused as Jonathan dissolved into gales of laughter.

Somehow, Jonathan felt, he really should have known.

The End

* * *

**Anthor's Note:**

All the laws and theories posted in this fic are actually quoted from Murphy's Law: and Other Reasons Why Things Go Wrong! by Arthur Bloch, 1977. In the forward, it actually tells the story of a letter recieved during the research phase of the book;

_Dear Arthur Bloch:_

_Understand you are going to publish a book, Murphy's Law - And Other Reasons Why Things Go Wrong. Are you interested in including the true story of the naming of Murphy's Law?_

When the author replied in the affirmative:

_ The event occurred in 1949, at Edwards Air Force Base, Muroc, California, during Air Force Project MX981. This was Col. J.P. Stapp's experimental crash research testing on the track at North Base. The work was being accomplished by Northrop Aircraft, under contract from the Aero Medical Lab at Wright Field. I was Northrop's project manager.  
The Law's namesake was Capt. Ed Murphy, a development engineer from Wright Field Aircraft lab. Frustration with a strap transducer which was malfunctioning due to an error in wiring the strain gage bridges caused him to remark - "If there is any way to do it wrong it will be" referring to the technician who had wired the bridges at the Lab. I assigned Murphy's Law to the statement and the associated variations._

_...A couple of weeks after the "naming," Col. Stapp indicated, at a press conference, that our fine safety record during several years of simulated crash force testing was the result of a firm belief in Murphy's Law, and our consistent effort to deny the inevitable. The widespread reference to the law in manufacturers; ads within only a few months was fantastic - and Murphy's law was off and running wild. _

_Sincerely, George E. Nichols  
Reliability and Quality Assurance Mgr.  
Viking Project  
Jet Propulsion Lab - NASA_

I thought I'd include this just for interest - it's a book my father gave me when I was a teenager (something he'd had a college), and Malcolm always reminds me of reading it that summer, at this little cottage by this fridged lake full of leaches. Murphy seemed a bit of an optimist to me that summer as well ;-p  



End file.
